The voices followed them, words lost in the distance but the tone still hanging in the air. Nona knew it well enough, sharp and unkind.
‘Bathhouse.’ Sister Apple pointed to a squat building built of unadorned black stone, steam escaping from a row of narrow windows, only to be stripped away by the wind. The Corridor wind scoured the plateau, and crossing the gap between the dormitories and the bathhouse Nona found herself exposed to its teeth. She’d spent a lifetime learning to ignore it – just another hard edge of a hard life – but one warm night had left her soft and shivering.
They reached the shelter of the bathhouse walls. The nun unlocked the heavy door and ushered Nona in. Hot wet air wrapped her immediately, the steam reducing her vision to a few yards. Wooden benches lined the foyer and a tall arch gave onto what might be a rectangular pool, its surface offered only in glimpses.
Metal shafts ran beneath the benches in profusion. ‘One of those was in my room!’ Nona pointed.
‘Pipes, child. They’re hollow – mineral oil runs through them. Very hot.’ Sister Apple nodded at the arch. ‘Let’s get the prison filth off you.’
Nona started uncertainly towards the pool, wondering how deep it was, and how hot. The streams around the village never reached much past your knees and quickly stole the feeling from everything below that point.
‘You’re not going in wearing clothes.’ Sister Apple’s voice held a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
Nona turned to stare defiantly up at the nun, her lips pressed together in a puckered scowl. Sister Apple stood with her arms folded. One silent second followed the next and at last Nona started to tug off her Caltess smock, stiff with Raymel Tacsis’s dried blood. She made a slow and awkward job of it: in the village even the littlest of the littles rarely ran around naked; the ice stood too close for that. Only around the harvest fires or in the all-too-brief kiss of the focus moon had Nona ever been as warm as there in the convent bathhouse.
‘Hurry along. I doubt you’re hiding anything unusual under there,’ Sister Apple said, pulling back her headdress as the heat got to her too. She had long hair, red and curling in the wet air.
Nona stepped out of her smock, arms folded about herself, with only the steam for modesty. She made a dart for the pool.
‘Wait!’ Sister Apple raised a hand. ‘You can’t go in filthy. You’ll turn the water black.’ She took a leather bucket from one of the many pegs lining the walls above the benches. ‘Stand over there.’ She pointed to an alcove between the benches on the left.
Nona did as directed, her whole body clenched. The alcove was wide enough for two or three people. The floor, tiled and perforated by finger-width holes, felt strange beneath her feet.
‘What—’ An explosion of hot water stole the rest of the question. Nona wiped her eyes clear in time to see the misty outline of the nun at the poolside having refilled the bucket.
‘There’s a brush on the floor. Use it.’ Another wave of hot water broke across Nona’s chest.
Nona reached, dripping, for the brush. She’d never felt anything quite as wonderful as a bucketful of hot water. Not even fresh bread and butter came close. Not even eggs, or the bacon she had smelled cooking at the Caltess. If scrubbing herself with a bristly brush was the price she had to pay to get into a whole pool of it, she would scrub.
Two buckets later Sister Apple declared her clean enough for the pool. Nona ran to the edge and lowered herself in, toes questing for the bottom. ‘How deep is it?’ The rising steam blinded her, the heat delicious.
‘This end is shallow. On you … to your shoulders?’
The water reached her neck before Nona’s feet found a smooth floor and she released her death-grip on the side. She stood, arms floating at her sides, sure that she had never been truly warm before.
Time skipped a beat. It skipped an untold number of beats. Nona hung in the blind heat of the pool. A sharp clap brought her attention back to the world.
‘Out you get. You’re clean … well, cleaner.’ Sister Apple stood at the water’s edge. In concession to the heat she had hung the outer cloak of her habit up on the pegs. She clapped again. ‘Out! We’ve both got things to do.’ She pointed to the corner of the pool. ‘There are steps there.’
Nona went to the steps, too limp to want to struggle back over the edge. At the top she found the nun holding out a large rectangle of thick cloth towards her. It didn’t seem to have any armholes or ties. ‘How do I …’
Sister Apple snorted. ‘It’s a towel.’ She thrust the thing into Nona’s hands. ‘Dry yourself with it.’
Nona wrapped herself in the towel, finding it thick and luxurious. If it had arms she would have worn it.
‘Dry your hair too.’
When Nona finished rubbing at her hair she was alarmed to see Sister Apple had sprung a second head, this one young and impish with short black hair, chin resting on the sister’s shoulder, cheek next to hers.
‘What is it?’ the new head asked.
‘It’s a Nona,’ Sister Apple replied.
‘A what?’
‘A ring-fighter from the Caltess.’
The new head frowned. Two slim hands slid into view holding the tops of Sister Apple’s arms. ‘It looks rather small and skinny for that. Someone should feed it. It looks more like a farm-girl.’ The second nun slipped away from Sister Apple. ‘Are you a farm-girl, Nona?’
Nona clutched her towel to her and found she was biting her lip too hard to explain that her mother wove baskets. She shook her head.
‘I don’t much care for farm-girls,’ the new nun sniffed, her smile removing any sting.
‘This is Sister Kettle,’ Sister Apple explained, shooing the other woman away. ‘And,’ raising her voice as Sister Kettle vanished into the steams, ‘she loves country girls.’ She returned to the benched area. ‘Come on. Get dressed.’
Nona followed her and reached for the habit. Sister Apple brushed her hand away with a tut. ‘Smallclothes first.’ She held out a confusing piece of white linen. Nona took it, frowning. Sister Apple watched her a moment then shook her head. ‘Farm-girls …’
It took a couple of minutes and significant amounts of advice before Nona finally stepped out of the bathhouse in the full attire of a novice of the Sweet Mercy Convent of the Ancestor. The wind was shockingly cold on her face but the rest of her seemed surprisingly well protected. She stood in her double-sleeved robe, tied at the middle with a woollen belt, two underskirts rustling beneath, her feet feeling most strange in leather shoes drawn tight around them with laces. The only difference between her habit and Sister Apple’s appeared to be the lack of a headdress, the nun having restored the garments she’d shed inside.
‘The novices will be at breakfast in the refectory.’ Sister Apple turned her head sharply and waved to someone across the wide yard. ‘Suleri!’
The figure stopped, turned, and hurried towards them, a tall girl with long dark
